I knew she was lying so I decided not to tell her what I saw, and the following week I asked her if she was going back for another session, she said no, "It does not work on me".Through time I realised she actually believes she cannot be hypnotised and what happened to her never happened and the more I dwelt with that theme, I started feeling empathy for the little brown Indian man, that hypnotised teenage white girls and made them do stuff they normally would never do, and when I masturbated, I was one of those girls, like my older sister, that allowed him carnal knowledge of my body, and my orgasms were truly great and intensive.Then one day my mother suggested I start taking the pill, "You're from a line of women who are too fertile for their own good", she insisted, I was f******n and had started my periods a year earlier and was masturbating myself every bloody morning, before getting up for school, she knew what I was like, and it was only a matter of time before cock replaced. ’ I mixed and tweaked for a few minutes. Suddenly she gasped softly. ‘That’s the red you love, isn’t it?’ I whispered. It really was a stunning shade – just enough of the yellow and sienna into the mix to take the red a tiny bit toward orange, a fiery mix that walked the line between bold and sensual. The shade matched the feeling her smoldering eyes drove into my soul every time she looked at me. She didn’t take time to answer, instead she dipped her brush immediately into the paint and prepared to attack the canvas. But she stopped short of the first brush stroke. ‘I don’t know what to do,’ she giggled. ‘I’ve never done anything more than ‘paint-by-numbers’ in my life.’ ‘Remember, it’s about feel. Close your eyes for a moment and feel the image inside you, just dying to come out.’ Her first brush strokes were tentative, slow, almost as if she were fighting to coax her imagination into action. Then her hand began moving more quickly, creating a series of lines radiating from.
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